Ripped (12 page)

Who cared? I’d been invited for drinks with some of the girls, and seeing as Bax was working, there was no reason why I shouldn’t accept.

The end of the day couldn’t come quickly enough. Not that I was a big drinker, far from it actually, but going for drinks didn’t mean I had to get smashed. It was the perfect chance to get to know these girls away from the stage and spotlights.

“Where are we going?” I asked Tiffany, catching her as she shoved her dance shoes in her bag.

“There’s a bar around the corner called Pointe that’s always full of dancers. We can go like this.” She indicated to her sweatpants and hoodie. “It’s like standard dress-code for that place.”

I gave myself a once-over. Sweats and zip-up track top should be fine then. I sniffed under my arms before screwing up my nose.

Tiffany laughed. “Here.” She tossed me her deodorant from her bag. “Never leave home without it.”

A loud whistle made me jump, and I spun around to find the source.

“Anyone coming to Pointe, we’re leaving now,” Becca announced from the stage. “Let’s go, ladies. I, for one, need a drink.”

I couldn’t wipe the broad grin from my face as seven other dancers, six girls and one guy, made their way toward the stage door. So this was my chance to make friends with all of them, to not only be another dancer in the show but someone they might consider socializing with. During breaks I’d heard them talking about going shopping in the East Village together, or a Broadway show a couple of them had been to. I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to be able to walk up to Tiffany or Becca or any of the others and invite them out for lunch or a jog in Central Park without feeling self-conscious and like a try-hard.

We were filing through the door when a familiar voice called out. “Wait for me, my little doves.”

I didn’t need to turn to see whose voice that was. I had heard it barking out steps and whispering in my ear for weeks now.

“Is Pierre coming?” I asked Tiffany in a hushed voice, already knowing the answer.

She rolled her eyes. “Apparently.”

I giggled at her response, feeling the same way.

She giggled back. “I can’t stand him. He’s such a sleaze, but he’s a brilliant choreographer and if you cross him you’ll never work again, so, you know.” She shrugged, leaving what I was supposed to know unsaid.

I nodded, hopefully convincingly, because I had no idea what she was talking about.

A nondescript brownstone hid what was a treasure trove of stage memorabilia. I would have walked straight past Pointe and never known what gems the walls concealed. The girls smiled knowingly as I slowly walked the circumference, reading the signed pictures and plaques on each framed piece of costume or small prop that hung on the wall.

There was a fan from
Madame Butterfly
. A mask from
Phantom of the Opera
that had been signed by Michael Crawford. A pair of red glitter shoes from
The Wizard of Oz
. The list was endless and I ohh’ed and ahh’ed in awe with every new piece I discovered. How had I never heard of this place before? I could spend the entire night just absorbing the plethora of keepsakes from the world’s most famous Broadway musicals.

A friendly hand rested on my shoulder. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Tiffany asked. “First time I came here I was worse than you. I’d been dreaming of being Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
since I was six, and to see those shoes …” She indicated with a nod to the glittery pumps on the wall. “I burst into tears.” She laughed. “Yes, I know, I’m pathetic.”

“You wanted to play Dorothy. Do you sing as well as dance?”

She smiled. “I do sing, but I actually wanted to not only play Dorothy, but be Dorothy. I grew up in Kansas and watching that movie was a Sunday afternoon staple in my house. I used to dream of being Dorothy and being whisked away to the magical land of Oz.”

“I’ve wanted to dance Odette in
Swan Lake
since I first put on ballet slippers at the age of three.” I sighed. “Maybe one day.”

“Come over here. This will blow your mind.” Tiffany grabbed my hand and led me across the bar to the opposite wall. There were ballet pointe shoes in a box frame with a brass plaque beneath that read ‘Galina Ulanova’s ballet shoes, worn for her performance of Odetta in
Swan Lake,
1932.’

To any regular person they were just a pair of second-hand ballet shoes, the ribbons tied in a bow, the toes dirty and worn. But to me they were priceless pieces of historical art. These shoes had been worn by a famous ballerina who had danced one of the most famous ballets, and I felt their significance from the ache in my chest to the ball in the pit of my stomach. One day, if I was ever lucky enough, I would have shoes hanging on the wall in this little brownstone bar, and a starry-eyed dancer would gaze upon them and feel all her dreams could come true, just as I now was.

“I know, right? That’s how I feel about Dorothy’s ruby slippers,” Tiffany said, reading my expression. “It will come true one day for both of us. You’ll see.”

Nodding, a rush of determination soar through me. “It will, and I’ll do anything to make it happen.”

Becca’s piercing whistle disturbed my perusal of souvenirs from many other Broadway shows. Tiffany hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. We must be way behind the others.”

Our group had secured a corner booth nearest to the bar, and Tiffany and I squeezed in either end of the red padded seats. Pierre wasn’t sitting and I hoped he’d had a change of heart and decided not to join us, but just as I was feeling myself relax, he appeared with a tray of tequila shots.

“Ah, there you are, my little star.” He placed two shot glasses in front of me before leaving the rest on the tray in the center of the table. A chair was dragged over beside me so I was trapped in the booth by Pierre. “You need to catch up. Here. We will drink together.”

I’d never had tequila before but it looked like water, so how bad could it be? Pierre raised his glass and waited for me to do the same. “Cheers,
mon etoile brillante
.”

I was way in over my head, but I smiled and threw the clear burning liquid down my throat. I had no idea what he’d called me as I didn’t speak French, but that was the least of my problems as fire burned my throat and chest, and I stifled a cough.

“Another?” Pierre was already raising another glass and indicating to the second shot glass in front of me.

“Cheers,” I said apprehensively and downed the second shot, the heat in my throat now so intense I couldn’t even muster a cough. Grabbing one of the many glasses of water on the table, I gulped it down, then refilled and emptied the glass for a second time.

“So tell me,
ma jolie
, where do you come from? Where did you first discover you had such grace to match the beauty of an angel?” Pierre’s hand came to rest on my knee beneath the table.

The tequila was already going to my head, and I felt flushed. I wanted to remove my jacket but was only wearing a crop top underneath. I needed to escape the confines of the booth and Pierre’s hand, but didn’t want to make a scene. Tiffany sat across from me on the end of the other bench seat, deep in conversation with two other girls. I kicked out not too gently, hoping I was connecting with her leg and not someone else’s.

She jumped and looked over at me. As subtly as possible I nodded toward Pierre, hoping she could read my distress signal. She grinned. “I need the bathroom. Anyone else?” It was a general question, but she was looking directly at me.

“Yes.” I couldn’t escape without Pierre moving for me, and he seemed reluctant to do so. “Excuse me, please.” I edged over. “I need to get out.”

Finally, he stood. “Of course, I’ll get you another drink while you’re gone.”

“Oh. My. God!” I squealed to Tiffany. “Help me. What do I do with Pierre?”

She gave a throaty laugh. “What can you do? He’s the choreographer. He has your career in the palm of his clammy little hands.”

“Ew. I do not want his clammy little hands on me at all—that’s the problem.”

The pity in her eyes made me take a step back. “In every show, there is at least one scandal. The choreographer or the producer preying on the weak or inexperienced …” Her hands rested on my shoulders. “You, my friend, are unfortunately the chosen one. You’re a brilliant dancer—hell, it took me a couple of weeks to get over my jealousy at just how good you are—but you’re new to this game. You’re an unknown and will remain an unknown for the rest of your life unless you play the game.”

“But I have a boyfriend. I can’t.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Do you really think he cares? If anything, that makes you more of a challenge and eventually, more of a triumph.” She gave me a sad smile. “Just flirt with him a little. As long as you’re never alone with him you’ll be fine, and I’ll make sure I never leave your side.” She slung one arm around me. “Come on, we can’t stay in here all night.”

I had no choice but to take up my seat at the end of the booth. The other girls and one token guy were doing another shot as we sat down, and Pierre lined up three glasses in front of me on the pretense that I needed to catch up. As the chorus of ‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’ chimed around me, I slammed down two in a row, took a mouthful of water, then downed the third. At least my throat wasn’t burning anymore; it had gone numb somewhere between the third and fifth shot. My head, however, was humming, and I was finding it difficult to concentrate on any of the conversations that were buzzing around me. I wished we’d eaten before the drinking had started. We’d been dancing all day with only short snack breaks in the morning and afternoon. My stomach that had previously been empty was now filling with alcohol.

“Jasmine,
mon cheri
, are you all right? Shall we go?” Pierre’s hot breath brushed my neck as he spoke far too closely to my ear. I thought he’d been speaking to me for quite a while, probably half in French, and had finally realized that I wasn’t paying any attention.

“Mmm, yes, I’m good.” The music that had been playing softly in the background had been turned up, the bass vibrating through my chest and into my head. “I want to dance.” Not waiting for Pierre to move, I clumsily climbed over him, almost knocking him from his chair in the process.

“Tiff.” I grabbed her arm, interrupting the conversation she was leaning into. “Let’s dance.”

Tiffany and the girls she’d been speaking to all slid from the booth and to their feet. There was a tiny dance floor in the middle of the bar with a few people already dancing, but as I looked around I realized that most of the dancing took place on a balcony that stretched around the perimeter of the room. On wobbly legs, we scaled the iron staircase to the balcony and found ourselves a place where the four of us could fit. As this was a bar that dancers frequented, there were no timid girls quietly bopping on the spot to the music. People were dancing, really dancing, and it made me giggle. It reminded me of a scene you might see in the musical
Fame
.

My giggles wouldn’t stop until they turned into hiccups.

Giggle, giggle hiccup! Giggle, hiccup!

“I think I need to vomit,” I said to no one in particular.

Firm hands grasped my hips from behind as the grinding music made my head thump.

“I need to …” God, it was hot. Not a dancing-too-much hot—a clammy, sickly hot. “Oh, no.” I took one step forward, about to make a break for the bathroom, when the same firm hands that had attached themselves to my hips spun me around. “Pierre …” A stream of hot liquid erupted, spilling all down Pierre’s lovely Louis Vuitton white shirt. “Oops!” At least his hands were no longer on me as they flew from my body, and he sprung back. “Sorry, I …” Another wave hit me and this time landed on his Valentino loafers.

My head spun as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Let’s get you some fresh air.” Tiffany steered me from the balcony and between the three girls, they managed to get me down the staircase without incident. As soon as we stepped through the door and the freezing air hit me, the buzzing in my ears lessened. The cold air helped the fog lift, but I needed to sit, so plonked my butt down on the front step of the bar.

“You can’t go home alone. Can you call that cutie-pie of yours?” Tiffany asked.

I fumbled in my pockets. “My phone’s in my bag,” I mumbled.

Becca jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

Why was everyone else perfectly fine when I’d vomited all over Pierre, twice?

I missed Bax. Sitting here on the cold, hard cement step, all I could think about was how much I wanted to see him. He would know what to do and how to take care of me.

Becca came back with my bag and handed it to me so I could fish out my phone. I dialed but it went to voicemail. I hung up and tried again, knowing that if he was close by he would have just missed picking up the call.

“Hello, Jaz?”

“Hey, Baxey. It’s me, Jazzy.” There was so much noise in the background. Music played and it sounded like people were cheering.

“Hang on a second,” Bax shouted before the noise in the background was muted. “Sorry, just gone to another room. How are you? Anything wrong?”

“I’m really, really … really sorry I didn’t come to New York to be with you.”